I made out with my host mom
By: Siobhan Anderson
Issue date: 2/4/10 Section: Perspectives
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When I arrived in Montpellier, ignorant of both French slang and rather unhygienic greeting habits, no one informed me that I would be receiving this constant wave of affection. Meeting my host mother was my first true experience with “les bisous.” She entered the foyer of the hotel I had been staying in with a rush of color, a certain smell of Chanel and oddly, Starbucks (I later discovered that this was because she took a weekly bath in the coffee grinds accumulated throughout the week, and then would perfume herself with Coco’s Number Nine). I recognized her from the photo she had sent when she offered a large smile as she approached me. There was no time to witness any expression on her face as she quickly grabbed me by the shoulders, yanked me to her like a policeman about to conduct a strip search and leaned in towards my face with lips puckered like the pinched end of an apple. Shocked and scared, yet still wanting to be polite and cultivated (two things which I later learned, are not possible for Americans), I leaned in to present the left side of my face, just as she went to plant one on my right cheek. Our lips met. Surprised, she pulled away quickly and examined me head to toe. Disaster warnings were running through my head like the tickers at the bottom of news programs.
One catastrophe after the other, my stock with French society plunging lower than the dollar. I could see myself trying to explain the situation to my family later: my mother trying to convince me that it happened all the time, that French people in fact liked having intimate contact with people they’ve never met, my Dad ignoring the situation entirely and asking me if she smelled like cigarettes or if her house looked like the Moulin Rouge and my brother repeating over and over “I can’t believe you made out with your host mom!”
She continued to examine me. When I had finished my apologetic and certainly incoherent rant she smiled, pulled me to her again and said, in broken English, “Zees is ow vee do eet een France.” She took my head in her hands and proceeded to kiss me, one kiss for each cheek, done three times, turning my head slowly, making sure I understood.
Now, six months later, saying hello in France still eludes me occasionally, but I am better at predicting now who to kiss first, whether or not to kiss a girl and whether it is appropriate to hold someone’s hand while kissing. Needless to say, a simple handshake seems like a thing of the past.